


From Eden

by LifeOnTheSideOfTheAngels



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-01-20 18:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeOnTheSideOfTheAngels/pseuds/LifeOnTheSideOfTheAngels
Summary: Just a few other scenes which Aziraphale and Crowley could have ended up in throughout history, starting with the gayest couple in the Bible.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. 1025 BCE, Middle East

**Author's Note:**

> “After David had finished talking with Saul, Jonathan became one in spirit with David, and he loved him as himself. From that day Saul kept David with him and did not let him return home to his family. And Jonathan made a covenant with David because he loved him as himself” -1 Samuel 18:1-3

“Angel you didn’t”.

The voice appearing next to him is one he hasn’t heard for 300 years, but yet Aziraphale is entirely unsurprised.

He should have known Crawley would find out about this somehow. Sometimes he swears the demon spends his time stalking him rather than doing any actual designated work.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm. So you have no idea how a rock fired by a teenage shepherd boy that should have barely grazed the biggest warrior the Philistines have, _just-so-happened_ to instead bring him to his knees and cause him to draw his final breath?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Ok, fine, I may have performed a slight miracle.

But this time it was sanctioned by heaven, I swear. David is a man after God’s own heart, after all. It would be a shame if he were to die before getting the chance to be king.”

“Really?” Crawley’s voice is dripping with_ I’m not buying it_, and his eyebrows go up so high they can actually be seen above the dark shades that infuriatingly no one ever comments on, despite glasses not being invented for another fifteen centuries. “You’ve suddenly taken an interest in the Israelite nobility?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale resolutely avoids eye contact, staring straight ahead, where the scene is still unfolding. A sure sign he’s hiding something.

Crowley smirks, arms crossed, watching as the king’s son, Jonathan takes off his own robe, tunic, belt and sword and hands them over to the young shepherd boy. The ultimate sign of trust and devotion, symbolising the two now bound together for life in a covenant that cannot be broken.

“Shut up.” This comes from Aziraphale after five minutes of silence.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“But you’re thinking loudly. Stop it.”

“And what am I thinking?”

“That I made an unsanctioned appearance in the middle of a desert just to ensure those two men down there ended up together.”

“Did you?”

“No!” A pause. “Well… maybe. But they’re soulmates. They belong together, it would have been such a shame if they never even got to live together. And David would have died for sure, I mean did you see that other guy? He was massive. Plus heaven certainly can’t object, the Israelites most definitely are on our side, it’s not like I was aiding one of your lot…”

Crawly can’t help the grin that overtakes his face as Aziraphale rambles on. This is what the demon loves about Aziraphale, has since the beginning. His unwavering goodness, even when every angelic fibre of his being is telling him to follow orders, he still has to do the right thing. Not that Crowley will ever admit to the admiration; it would only go to his head.

“And anyway…”, Aziraphale finally concludes, ‘You’re a demon, Crawly. Not to mention a literal snake. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“Ah but we are. Be careful Angel, you might just end up more like me than you plan.”


	2. 216 BCE, Bath House, Sparta

216 BCE, Bath House, Sparta

“Aren’t you supposed to be with the Israelites? Thought those were the only people your lot cared about these days.”

This time when the tall, wily figure appears beside him Aziraphale doesn’t even bother to turn his head from where it’s currently resting against wall in the largest public bath Sparta has to offer.

“No! Well, perhaps.

The Almightly _is_ intent on preserving the holy lineage through her chosen people. I think the Son is to born to them someday soon. Or something.

It has been a while since I’ve attended an official briefing. Either way, they’re managing fine on their own currently.”

“So once again, you are making an unofficial appearance to follow your own desires?” And once again, Crowley is unable (or unwilling) to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

“How do you always find me Crowley?” The angel tries his best to come across as annoyed, but mostly just ends up sounding impressed. And pleased.

“Who says I was looking?” Crowley at least has the decency to avert his gaze from where it had previously been tracing Aziraphale’s form as he delivers the obvious lie. “I’m simply stopping by on my way to the Olympic games. And there’s a new philosopher in town I’m dying to meet, so two birds really.”

“Honestly Crowley. You should at least try to follow instructions at some point instead of simply appeasing your every whim.” 

“Says the one currently ignoring an entire nation of people to soak in a hot spring in Greece.“

“It’s a _bath_! You should see the deplorable conditions I’ve been dealing with for the past century, I deserve this.” Aziraphale comes across as genuinely both indignant and appalled and Crowley can’t help but grin. 

“So then take a break. You have earned it. Satan knows you’ve done the work of ten angels in your quest for _goodness_”.

“Well some of us actually believe in following orders I suppose.” Axiraphale’s tone is mild and relaxed, his eyes already closed as he sinks deeper into the water, and Crowley loses any desire he had to continue the fight. Instead he removes his tunic and climbs in alongside the angel he’s unwittingly decided to make a part of his life.

“You know, if you’re really looking for something to do, I could use some company to the upcoming games. I’ve heard the foot racing competition is supposed to be especially fierce this year.”

“I really shouldn’t. Heaven will start to ask questions if I’m away from my post for more than a few weeks at a time, you know.” 

“Of course, I completely understand. It was just a passing thought.” 

“Mmmm. It does sound nice. Maybe someday.” Aziraphale’s guard is down and he allows himself to fantasize about it for a second- the atmosphere, the festivities, the fun he would have with the one being who truly understands him, even if he is fallen…

And then with a start, Aziraphale is suddenly aware of the proximity of their earthly bodies, and how much younger Crowley’s appears than his own. The last thing he needs is a _reputation_ 500 miles from his stationed post. 

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. Some of us still have duties to perform you know.” He has no idea why he’s apologising, but it feels like the decent thing to do as he pulls himself out of the water, feeling the demon’s gaze following him, but mercifully remaining quiet.

Maybe one day he’ll have the courage to stay, but for now, the thought of Gabriel finding out is enough to hasten his departure. At least, he continues to try to convince himself that’s what is stopping him, and not his own trepidation at the feelings starting to emerge whenever Crowley is in close proximity. 

They’re an angel and a demon after all, sworn enemies. It would take more than a bath to bring them together. 

The world would have to be ending. Or something.


	3. 1881, Albermale Gentleman’s Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think God in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability” -Oscar Wilde

_ **1881, Albermale Gentleman’s Club** _

“I really think I ought to go”, Aziraphale murmured, the definitiveness he was hoping to achieve somewhat undercut by nervousness, curiosity, and, though he was desperately trying to repress it… desire. 

He _should_ leave yes, illicit sexual activity in underground clubs was generally frowned upon by higher ranking heavenly officials. But did he actually _want_ to leave? He had heard about clubs like this of course, and he certainly had been exposed to far more explicit male advances during his time in Athens two millennia ago, but he had never indulged. Never had wanted to, angels being sexless beings after all.

Maybe he had been influenced by the humans in more ways than just developing an affinity for crepes.

Or, maybe it had to do with the gentleman to whom his original words had been directed. The well respected playwrite who clearly saw something in him he didn’t even realise he had been trying to hide, when one day over drinks and discussions of ancient literature had suggested that he stop by a private event sometime. 

The same man who was currently admonishing “You just arrived, don’t be ridiculous” and leading him past scantily clad young men, up a velvet staircase to a table where they had a good view of the proceedings starting to unfold below.

When Axiraphale had first contacted Oscar Wilde under the guise of a fellow author interested in meeting his hero, he knew they had a lot in common. And _of course _he had heard whispers of the sort of places Wilde could be found on a Saturday night, who hadn’t? And perhaps he _was_ secretly looking to be introduced to that circle. To meet others who were interested in things other than pretty girls and fighting wars. But still he had somehow never expected this. 

_And what even was this? _he wondered, sipping the whiskey Wilde had conjured up seemingly through a miracle of his own, glancing over to where his companion currently was slipping his hand under the shirt of a fair headed youth while whispering in his ear. Definitely not somewhere an angel should be found.

Then why wasn’t he leaving?

_You know why you’re here,_ his brain unhelpfully supplied. _It’s because you’re lonely. You miss him._

It was true. Ever since their argument about the holy water, Crowley had remained impossibly hard to track. Aziraphale was forced to admit to himself how much he craved the companionship, the banter, the feeling of knowing someone understood him entirely and accepted him anyway.

In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, he was half hoping Crowley would show up tonight, as he always seems to when Aziraphale was out of his depth and needed him most. That he’d have a chance to apologise, to make up. And, late at night, a place like this, who knows what could happen…

But it seemed there would be no demonic intervention this time.

So when, five drinks in, Wilde finally made his way back to the table, Aziraphale ignored every fibre of his being which told him to sober up. 

Resisted the voices warning him that his original plan of leaving was the rational decision. That he could still make it out of here without committing a sin from which he could never recover.

Instead, focused on the sparkling eyes in front of him. Allowed himself to feel and _want_ as he never had before. Stayed silent as Wilde stroked his thigh and peppered his shoulder, his hair, his lips with light kisses. 

Nodded wordlessly at Wilde’s whispered “if you’re still looking for an escape, I have somewhere in mind”, followed him into an adjoining room, permited himself to be pinned against the wall and to finally _let go_. 

And completely missed the dark shape with hair like fire and all black, scandalously tight attire who had stepped through the door moments before. 

For Crowley however, there was no mistaking the outline of the form he knew all too well, no way to misinterpret what was about to happen. Shock and confusion quickly gave way to anger and jealousy. 

But there was nothing to do besides drink the night away and lose himself with one of the six men whose eyes hadn’t left him since the moment he walked through the door. 

So he did.


End file.
